


And Hell Followed

by snackycake



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snackycake/pseuds/snackycake
Summary: When medium and witch practitioner Lydia Deetz agrees to take a ghost as a client, she and her reluctant poltergeist partner-in-crime discover there's more to this case than meets the eye. It's murder all the way down, folks! :D
Relationships: Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz, Lydia Deetz/Original Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic has been kicking around my head for awhile, so I decided to take the plunge. I'm still figuring a few things out, but I know where it's going and how it ends. Also, I'm pulling inspiration and influence from allllll the folklore and myths and religions, and making them my own for the purpose of this story. Please don't expect historical or factual accuracy whatsoever. 
> 
> Anyway, I think this is going to be fun. :)

**PROLOGUE**

_And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. - Revelation 6:8_

Lydia knelt in a hastily-cast circle of protection, desperately clutching her husband’s cooling body, a lone candle glowing faintly at her knee. Their blood mingled, soaking her skirt and spreading inch by agonizing inch across polished floorboards toward the line of salt. Beyond her circle lie madness — a swirling, malevolent supernatural presence that seemed to be made of darkness itself.

In the handful of years since founding the Agency, she and William had interacted with countless spirits, from your run-of-the-mill ghosts — like the Maitlands, the deceased couple who haunted Lydia’s family home — to banshees, imps, and the odd garden-variety poltergeist. But both mediums had been sorely unprepared to tackle an entity like the murderous horror currently slamming formless black limbs against Lydia’s wards. 

When the entity drew back, turning its attention to ransacking her office, she pressed a hand against her gravid belly, sliding her fingers along its taut swell. Neither twin had moved since the spirit had appeared and lashed out, knocking Lydia against her desk. She’d felt her water break first as she dragged herself to William’s side. Then came the cramping and the blood, bright and arterial, as she fumbled for the jars of salt and chalk that had been knocked to the floor in the tumult. 

She turned her wrist to mark the time on her watch. It had been two minutes since what she assumed was an honest-to-gods contraction had ended. Barely three and a half since she watched their client, Mr. Gladstone, get swallowed by black smoke. Even less since Will stood up from his chair, stumbled toward her with a surprised look on his face, and fell to the floor.

A sob tore itself from Lydia’s throat, unbidden. A part of her had already known her husband was gone, but she still hadn’t been prepared for the sight of his green eyes staring, his face and blond hair spattered with red. Through the gaping hole in the center of his chest where his kind, beautiful heart once lay, she caught glimpses of shattered bone and blackened flesh.

She bent over William’s body and buried her face against his hair, her hands once more grasping at him, willing him to be whole again, to breathe. To look at her and flash that wicked smile and fix this mess.

 _Stop it,_ a cold, furious voice in her head commanded. _You don’t have time for this. Use what you’ve learned._

Lydia took a steadying breath and steeled herself before raising her head. The entity was ripping books from shelves and frames from walls, creating a path of destruction around the office’s perimeter. It was only a matter of time before it broke one of the windows by unholy accident; gods knew what havoc it could wreak on the streets of New York City. The thought inspired a shudder.

She cast around desperately, trying to remember anything she and Will had studied over the last five years that would be relevant to her current situation. Every rank and class of ghost was unique; what appeased one spirit would inflame the passions of another. Some wanted closure, some wanted revenge. A few seemed to want to watch the living world burn. But the common denominator was this: Every single spirit wants to be _heard_.

Lydia rallied her flagging courage. She swallowed thickly, and asked, “What do you want?”

All at once the entity turned aside from the ancient grimoire it was currently shredding and dove toward Lydia. It surrounded her in a burst of noxious smoke, dousing every source of light in the room except the lone candle by her side. She managed somehow to not flinch, staring doggedly into the black, until two glowing red orbs appeared before her, radiating malice and hatred.

She lifted her chin. _Okay, then. Maybe you’re onto something, Deetz._

“What do you want?” she repeated, distantly surprised by how calm she sounded. “Whatever it is... I can help.”

The red eyes merely stared at her, unmoving, promising mayhem and murder. 

_This was supposed to be a simple seance... So Mr. Gladstone could talk to his mother._ She shook her head slowly, uncertainty and grief threatening to overwhelm her once again.. _What the hell even_ is _this thing?_

_Definitely not a poltergeist,_ another part of her pointed out calmly. _At least not one like_ him. 

But that was a given. Nothing was quite like _him —_ Betelgeuse, the self-proclaimed Ghost With The Most.

All at once pain gripped Lydia’s petite form. She gasped in a frantic breath and held it, her eyes squeezing shut against the onslaught. When the agony finally lessened she released the breath and greedily sucked in air. In spite of the confusion, pain, and oxygen deprivation, she was keenly aware of the warm bloody gush between her legs, and how quickly it had slowed to a worrisome trickle. 

_Speaking of Betel,_ the little niggling voice in her head reminded quietly. 

“No,” she whispered aloud.

Lydia’s fingers stole involuntarily to the wedding band on her ring finger — the one her dead first husband had placed there when she was sixteen, in the final seconds of their disastrous wedding ceremony. She twisted the ring around her swollen digit, sliding it up to her first knuckle where it refused to budge any further. No amount of soap, baby oil, thaumaturgy or diamond-tipped saw blade could touch the cursed object.

“Well, Lydia my dear, you most definitely made a deal with a devil,” William had chuckled ruefully after their latest unsuccessful attempt to free her from the ring. 

They’d attempted everything short of dismemberment, and even then she supposed the ring would have found a way to stick around her person. Maybe even embed itself in her skin, digging in like a parasite. The thought was unnerving. 

“You’d think he’d have come to collect by now,” she’d grumbled. “He isn’t exactly a reasonable, let alone patient, kind of guy.”

“Barbara and Adam did say time moves differently in the Netherworld. If you’re still bound, that has to mean ol’ Betel—” 

Lydia had clapped her hand over his mouth in a panic. “Don’t!”

Will had grinned and muttered something against her palm. When she took her hand from his face and prompted him to repeat himself, he replied, “I said if he does show up, he’ll have to go through _me_ first.”

She’d crossed her arms over her breast, tucking her fingers into her elbows to hide the ring from sight. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Her second husband had laughed, then, and swept her up in one of his patented bear hugs. She’d melted into his embrace. “Don’t worry,” he told her, planting a kiss on her furrowed brow. “We’ll find a way to get rid of him.”

“Together.”

“Together,” he agreed.

A cacophony of shattered glass and the acrid stink of burning parchment brought Lydia’s focus back to her present reality. She blinked and looked up to find the entity had turned its lava-eyed attention away from her again, slipping toward the bank of windows with an oozing, oily sort of grace, revealing the fact that her desk had caught fire. Any moment now, the sprinkler system would go off and the alarms would sound. That meant New York City fire and rescue personnel and police would soon be on their way.

And that would likely mean death — for all of them.

Lydia hugged Will’s limp body tightly to her pregnant belly, pressing her face into his hair. _There’s no time_ , she moaned internally as spots danced before her eyes. _No choice._

Time to go nuclear.

“Betelgeuse,” she whispered, and took a deep, steadying breath. Will’s hair smelled of sandalwood, tickling her nose and lips. She spoke again, louder, “Betelgeuse.”

The candle beside Lydia flickered as if in a sudden draft, and the dark presence surged in with a blood-curdling roar of outrage. It slid along her wards, its smoky black form billowing and roiling overhead like a supernatural storm cloud of unadulterated evil. Something like lightning flickered within its depths, each spark hot and glowing like steel in a forge. 

She kissed her Will’s temple one last time and looked up, forcing herself to meet the entity’s red gaze. She smiled grimly. “Betelgeuse.”

On later reflection, with what little she already knew about her first husband, Lydia would wonder at the lack of fanfare and showmanship. When she uttered the last syllable of his name the floorboards and walls barely shuddered. Her big haunted grandfather clock ticked backwards by exactly five seconds. The rest of the world screeched to a halt and backtracked, with the evil entity frozen in mid-air, and the dancing flames on her desk fully arrested. And as she began to writhe in the midst of another contraction, there he was — Betelgeuse, Level 6 Poltergeist, black plague survivor, and Juilliard graduate — standing before her in his striped suit. Both hands in his pockets, and a cigarette smoldering at the corner of his discolored mouth. He looked much the same as he did the night she tied herself to him for all eternity, if a bit more rumpled and stippled with Saturn dust.

“Well, well, well. If it ain’t the old ball and chain,” he drawled, instantly reminding Lydia of a Scooby Doo villain; despite the pain she had to bite her lip to fight back a bout of hysterical laughter. He gestured at her vaguely. “Who’s the stiff?”

“William,” she gasped out as the contraction eased. “My husband.”

The poltergeist’s brows shot up towards his receding hairline. “Oof. Tough break.” He leaned to peer into William’s bloodied face and said, “Welcome to the club, pal.” Then he straightened, cackling heartily.

“I want to make a deal,” Lydia said abruptly, her voice unnaturally loud.

He sobered, took one last long drag off his cigarette, and flicked it aside. It disappeared before hitting the floorboards. “Yeah? Well, that didn’t work out quite so well for me the first time around, now did it?”

“I tried to get rid of _this_ ,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. She lifted her left hand, palm toward him, and nudged at his wedding band with her thumb. “Will and I both tried. We read every grimoire and book of shadows we could get our hands on. Tried all the spells and potions, every incantation. Went to a priest who specializes in exorcising inanimate objects. The Maitlands even used their last voucher to ask Juno for help.”

Betelgeuse’s answering smile was smug. The Cheshire cat that got the cream. “Fat lotta good all that’ll do you.”

“Exactly,” she agreed flatly. “But we learned so much else along the way.”

He paused to regard her for a long moment, blue eyes wary and glowing like twin pilot lights. “Such as?”

She licked her lips nervously. “Do you still want out?”

“Does the Tin Man have a sheet metal cock?”

“I want to make a deal,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I have something you want, and I’ll give it to you if you send that—” She waved her hand at the evil entity frozen over their heads. “Back to where it came from. If you get me and my babies out of here in one piece. If you go back to the other side and help me find Will—” She stopped and covered her mouth with both hands, holding back the wail of grief attempting to claw out of her throat.

Betelgeuse stared down at her middle as if noticing her pregnancy for the first time. As if she wasn’t currently the size of a small house. For a moment she could’ve sworn he looked stricken or confused, like when she’d told him of her death wish all those years ago. 

Finally he snorted. “You have _got_ to be shittin’ me.”

“No. You need me,” she said around her fingers.

“Not sure it’s worth my time, babes. You’re fading fast, and I got the feeling you’ll be no good to me dead.”

“I’m still your wife, aren’t I? On the other side, I mean.” She valiantly fought the urge to close her eyes and lie down forever, but her lids insisted on drifting shut. “And if that’s the case,” she continued, her words beginning to slur together. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Suddenly he was crouched at her side, the knees of his suit steeped in a good half inch of blood. His cold hands came hard around her shoulders and hauled her up until they were nose-to-nose, his crooked yellowed grin filling her entire world. “Now you’re talkin’.” 

Lydia’s eyes darted from his moss-mottled face, to the unbroken circle of salt just beyond. “How—?” she choked out.

“You think this happy hedge witch bullshit could keep me out?”

“It worked for that thing,” she said weakly.

“What? _That?_ ” He spared the other supernatural entity a glance, then turned and laughed in her face. His breath was redolent of whisky, tobacco smoke, and freshly-turned compost. “Jesus H. Christ, kiddo. Are you naive, or what?” 

“What is it?”

“That’s what us professionals in the business call a djin.” He shrugged. “Pesky little hellspawn. Basically, an undead toddler on steroids. And in case you hadn’t noticed, one that really likes to play with fire. How the hell’d you manage to rustle up one of these little doggies, anyway? It’s a mite far from home.”

Lydia sucked in a ragged breath. The black spots in her vision were growing in number and size, and her lungs ached as if she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Figured as much.” Betelgeuse lowered his gaze to take her in, lingering on her mouth. He cocked his head. “So, how ‘bout it, babes? What was that you were saying about makin’ it worth my while?”

She sagged, helpless in his grasp. “Then do we have a deal?”

“Well, you know, I’m still not quite sure what I’m agreeing to, here.”

“I _told_ you,” she whispered. _He’s not biting. It’s over,_ she thought, despair tugging at her heart. Her eyes shut in defeat. “I said I’d get you out.”

The poltergeist shook her abruptly, his fingertips digging mercilessly into her arms. “Hey. Stay with me, Lyds.”

Lydia begrudgingly complied and opened her eyes, but didn’t have the strength to properly glare. Betelgeuse was frowning at her, sharply angled brows drawn together in something akin to concern. The idea that he gave a rat’s ass about anyone but himself elicited from her a wide, wild smile. The sight seemed to deepen his frown that much further.

This was it. Her last chance. It was time to appeal to his overdeveloped sense of self-preservation.

“You know you’re stuck with me no matter what, right?” she ventured. “For all eternity.”

His gaze slid from hers. “That was kind of the point.”

She shrugged off his words, lacking the patience or capacity to analyze what they meant. With a final burst of adrenaline and energy, she snapped, “Listen to me, Betelgeuse—” He spluttered when she took his name in vain, his eyes narrowing in reproach. “I swear on my life and the lives of my unborn children that if you want to shuffle back onto this mortal coil, you need me whole and hale. And if you don’t help me, if you don’t do each and every goddamn thing I tell you to do… If you let us die today, so help me God, I’ll make you regret every single moment of the rest of your miserable afterlife!”

Betelgeuse had the audacity to grin. “Pfft. You actually think I don’t already?”

“It’s your move, asshole,” she said with a sneer, and promptly blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Quote Attribution:** “Does the Tin Man have a sheet metal cock?” is shamelessly stolen from Trailer Park Boys.


	2. Come Hell or High Water

“I apologize for the interruption, Mrs. Winterbourne. Today was our pre-school’s graduation ceremony, and my daughter couldn’t wait to call and tell me all about it.”

Mrs. Winterbourne, a prim elderly woman clad in gray silk and black tweed, with broad shoulders and steely gray hair pinned into a tight bun, smiled faintly at Lydia over the stacks of files on the medium’s desk. “No apologies necessary, Mrs. Deetz. It’s a shame you had to miss it.” She inclined her head politely. “How many children do you and your husband have?”

Lydia’s expression froze, mid-smile. Her thumb unconsciously rubbed over the thin platinum band on her right hand — the one Will had placed there almost a decade ago. “It’s Ms., actually. I’m widowed.” This statement elicited a peevish, exaggerated snort from somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling directly above Lydia’s chair. She ignored it. “My husband, Will, passed before our twins were born.”

Betelgeuse was lounging in his stripes on his back near the rafters, caught up in a draft from the ceiling fans that sent him gently drifting around the room. “William this, William that,” he grumbled to himself, using his hands as puppets. “Blah blah blah!” He then flipped the bird at no one in particular and juiced up a lit cigarette.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Winterbourne, oblivious to the childish theatrics taking place overhead. “Both girls?”

 _I’m going to exorcize him_ , Lydia inwardly seethed. Outwardly, she was all sweetness and light. “One of each, actually. Lauren and James.”

“What a blessing.” Mrs. Winterbourne looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap. “My late husband and I were unable to have children.”

An awkward silence fell between the two women, broken only by the ticking of the office’s grandfather clock, and the sound of the city streets below: the chatter of students hanging out at the nearby coffee shop after class, the construction site down the block, the hydraulic whine of a delivery truck’s liftgate, and what was most likely a cabbie laying on their horn to complain about said delivery truck blocking the lane. Betelgeuse added his gravelly voice to the mix, lustily complaining of boredom, prompting Lydia to straighten and loudly clear her throat.

“How can we—” The medium silently cursed the poltergeist once again, then shook her head and continued. “How can _I_ help you, Mrs. Winterbourne?”

The older woman met Lydia’s eyes. Her lips pressed in a fierce, grim line. “I was referred by an associate at the Jericho Foundation.” Lydia, finding herself incapable of responding, simply sat there and stared, her lips parted in surprise. Mrs. Winterbourne’s expression sharpened. “I trust you’re familiar?”

“Whoa.” Betelgeuse had dropped to the floor to hunker down beside Lydia’s chair, his fingers grasping the edge of the desk. “This broad ain’t pullin’ any punches, is she?” The medium’s wide, toffee brown eyes briefly met his before returning to their newest potential client. 

Lydia took a steadying breath. “Do you mind giving your associate’s name?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Winterbourne, tone brisk. “Dr. Daniel Talion is a longtime colleague and family friend. He assured me at great length that you’re not only capable, but discreet, and would be more than happy to assist me with my situation.”

Lydia started, failing to stifle a yelp of dismay as Betelgeuse exploded into action, leaping onto his feet. “Well, he can fuck _that_ sky-high!” He waved his arms and began to furiously pace along the bookcases on the wall behind Lydia’s desk. 

Mrs. Winterbourne, unable to see or hear the poltergeist’s tantrum, narrowed her eyes at Lydia. “Are you quite alright, Ms. Deetz?”

“Yes!” Lydia grimaced in apology. “Sorry about that. Stubbed my toe under the desk.” 

Betelgeuse continued his profane tirade behind Lydia’s back, vowing to do all manner of unspeakable things to that uppity bastard, Daniel Talion, as soon as his so-called wife stopped being such a frigid bitch, and deigned to let go of the leash every once in a while so he could _do his goddamn job_. Lydia, nerves rapidly fraying, quelled the powerful urge to break protocol and give the poltergeist a direct verbal command to shut his pie hole. _He’d probably just_ love _it if I did. Getting under my skin is basically foreplay for him._

She forced a smile at the older woman. “Please, by all means, continue.”

Mrs. Winterbourne nodded shortly, and reached into her tweed jacket. Over Lydia’s shoulder, Betelgeuse immediately fell silent. The room’s temperature dipped a solid ten degrees in a second flat. Unaware of the danger, the elderly woman removed her hand from her jacket only to produce a folded sheet of creamy off-white paper. The unbearable tension in the room continued, unabated. 

“I think it would help if you read this first.” Mrs. Winterbourne said. “My Gabby—” She stopped herself. Swallowed. “My _friend_ , a dear one, passed away in my home two weeks ago. I found this letter in her office.”

Lydia rose on weak knees to lean over the desk and accept the letter, then sat back down hard. She slowly unfolded the sheet with trembling fingers. When nothing but a handwritten sheet of fine legal letterhead was revealed, the chill in the air diminished by fine increments. Betelgeuse crowded in to read along, his cool stubbled cheek pressed against her neck and his chin nestled in the dip of her shoulder. She stiffened at the contact and looked at him in astonishment. While the poltergeist’s behavior had always been volatile, today he was fast approaching beyond-the-pale territory. 

_Yep. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark._

“Psst. Focus, babes.” Lydia realized the ghost was peering at her sidelong while wearing a self-satisfied smirk. “Business first.” She turned and ducked her head to read Mrs. Winterbourne’s letter, her cheeks heating with mortification and annoyance. 

> _My Dearest,_ _Felicia,_ the letter began. 
> 
> _It pains me to imagine you reading this letter, with the knowledge that I have passed on and you are left alone to grieve and clean up my messes. I’ve spent decades setting protections and failsafes, all to no avail. My death is proof of that. If it is indeed you who broke the seal as I hoped and planned, then I’m afraid I’m in dire need of your help._
> 
> _But, dearest friend, don’t give into despair. This needn’t herald the end, for I am always with you! Keep the wicks trimmed and the lamps burning. And seek Daniel’s counsel. He will know what to do._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Gabrielle_

As Lydia finished reading, Betelgeuse pulled away, muttered something about assholes and necromancers, and took to pacing along the bookcases once again. She folded the letter and leaned to offer it back to Mrs. Winterbourne. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

Mrs. Winterbourne lowered her head to stare at her hands. “I thank you.”

“Your dearly departed’s words are vague,” Lydia continued, keeping her tone quiet, gentle; Betelgeuse called it her Funeral Director voice. “Did Dr. Talion offer any advice, other than to send you here? How does he feel I can help?”

“I’ll give you three guesses, babes, and the first two don’t count,” Betelgeuse said.

“Daniel says Gabby is—” Mrs. Winterbourne covered her mouth with an elegant hand. The biggest diamond Lydia had seen outside of the Smithsonian glittered on the other woman’s finger. She cleared her throat, and continued, “He said she’s still in the house. Her spirit… Her _ghost_. He said you commune with them.”

Lydia hesitated, then gave the other woman a brief nod. “I do. Does Dr. Talion believe Gabrielle is in some kind of trouble?” 

“No,” Mrs. Winterbourne admitted. “But Gabby seemed to think so. Daniel told me if you came to our home that maybe you’d be able to speak with her and determine why.”

Betelgeuse grabbed the back of Lydia’s chair and gave it a minute shake. “No. Fucking. Way.”

“There isn’t much that can truly harm a spirit,” Lydia said calmly, for the poltergeist’s benefit as much as her client’s. “I don’t think there’s any reason to be afraid. Has anything strange or unusual occurred in the home since your friend passed away?”

“There’s one here in this room, isn’t there?” Mrs. Winterbourne gave the medium an appraising look. “A spirit?”

Lydia gave her a pained smile. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re distracted.” said Mrs. Winterbourne with a shrug. “And I smell cigarettes, but—” She gestured vaguely. “No smoke.”

Lydia wanted to bang her head against the desk. “There is, in fact, a spirit here with us,” she said reluctantly. “He’s friendly—” 

“I’ll show you how fuckin’ friendly I am,” the poltergeist growled, his voice seeming to come from multiple locations around the room. The walls trembled briefly, rattling the windows and glassware in Lydia’s specimen cases. Mrs. Winterbourne’s eyes widened, her hands clutching her chair’s armrests for dear life.

“He’s friendly _-ish,"_ Lydia amended, rolling her eyes. “And he’s distracting me on purpose because poltergeists are notoriously jealous, and he likes having me all to himself.” She cast her gaze to the ceiling, where something enormous, and more snake-like than human, coiled around the rafters. “And if _this_ poltergeist knows what’s good for him, he won’t breathe another word for the rest of our appointment.”

The room grew still once more. Betelgeuse was back in his stripes, perched on the edge of Lydia’s desk with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. “You’re no fun.”

“Likewise,” the medium retorted. She turned her attention back to an obviously unsettled Mrs. Winterbourne and shrugged. “Once again, I’m sorry for the interruption. It won’t happen again. We were talking about noticing any strange happenings around your home?”

Lydia was surprised to no end that Betelgeuse kept his own counsel for the rest of Mrs. Winterbourne’s appointment. The two women discussed dates for a home visit, and decided on Thursday of the following week. When Mrs. Winterbourne complained of sleeplessness and nightmares, Lydia offered to bring the older woman a tincture, and an herbal sachet to slip beneath her pillow, to help her sleep through the night. When the grandfather clock struck two, the meeting was officially at an end. 

“Thank you, Lydia,” Mrs. Winterbourne said, rising to her feet as the second chime sounded. “I appreciate your time and consideration.”

Lydia stood, smoothed her skirts, and moved to walk her client to the door. Instead of a handshake, the older woman thrust a thick bank envelope into her hands. She looked up in surprise. “What is this?”

“Your fee,” Mrs. Winterbourne explained. “Daniel said to offer fifty percent up front.”

Lydia heard a chuckle and a squeak as the poltergeist settled into the chair behind her desk. She shook her head. “That isn’t necessary, ma’am.”

Mrs. Winterbourne patted her shoulder awkwardly “Call me Felicia. And I insist.”

Lydia was well aware it wasn’t wise to argue with anyone involved with Dr. Daniel Talion and the Jericho Foundation. She slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket. “Thank you, Felicia. I’ll see you next week.” 

She watched as Mrs. Winterbourne got on the elevator, then closed and locked her office door. The medium turned to glare at the poltergeist, hands on her hips. “You’re insufferable.”

Betelgeuse leaned back in Lydia’s office chair and propped his muddy boots on her desk. He gave an obnoxious wave. “Bye, Felicia!” he called, then cackled and folded his hands behind his head. “How much she give you?”

Lydia pulled out the bank envelope and peeled it open. She thumbed through the bills. “Holy shit,” she murmured.

“That much, huh?”

“There has to be at least ten thousand dollars here.” It was more cash than Lydia had held in her entire adult life.

“Color me impressed.”

Lydia carefully sealed the envelope and put it back in her skirt pocket. She leveled an expectant look at Betelgeuse. “Did you grab my order while you were out terrorizing Manhattanites this morning?”

The poltergeist sat upright in her chair, aimed finger guns at her big worktable, and made cartoonish “pew pew pew” noises. A cardboard box and two craft paper bags appeared out of thin air and dropped an inch to the table top. “Yep.”

Lydia took a work apron from its hook and pulled it on over her dress before heading for the sink to wash her hands. “You’re a peach.” 

“I _aim_ to please.”

“Hardy har har.”

She wiped her hands on a clean shop towel and wandered over to dig through her newly-delivered supply order. Bundles of fresh rosemary and dried lavender were lovingly packaged and nestled over bulkier items in the box. She buried her nose in the lavender, closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply, a smile on her face. The fresh, soothing scent washed over her, clearing away some of her lingering frustration with Betel. When she opened her eyes, she spotted a handwritten note tucked among the rosemary fronds.

 _Picked from my own garden. I think you’ll find the lavender particularly effective. Love, Miri._ Lydia smirked at the postscript: _I’ve included a little something for your errand boy._

“I think Miri likes you,” she told the poltergeist, passing him the note. 

He perked up, interested. “Ya think?” He scanned the note, grumbled and cursed about errand boys, then brightened again when Lydia dug a small bottle of bourbon buried beneath cellophane bags of dried hibiscus and clary sage. He greedily snatched the bottle from her hand and shoved it into an inner pocket of his jacket. “Don’t mind if I do!” 

Lydia shook her head and turned back to her order. The poltergeist leaned his hip against the worktable, pulled a lit cigarette from the air, and watched, seemingly content, as she methodically cataloged and put away the different herbs, spices, and various other items of her craft. With that tedium accomplished, she began working on the sachet she promised to bring Ms. Winterbourne at their upcoming home visit. The lavender and rosemary her herbalist friend, Miri, had included were a perfect place to start.

“You’re in a mood,” she remarked as she stripped lavender buds from their stems and dropped them into a mortar. 

“What makes you say that?”

“ _Betel_.”

The poltergeist grumbled and scuffed the toe of his boot over the floorboards. “I dunno, babes. Didn’t you get the feelin’ that ol’ biddy wasn’t being on the level? Where all the particulars are concerned, I mean.”

“You think she was hiding something?”

“Pfft. I mean, obviously.”

“Like what?”

“First off, them two broads weren’t ‘just friends.’” The ghost thrust his abnormally long tongue between his middle and index fingers and waggled the tip of it at her. “I betcha a big ol’ bottle of Macallan 25 they had themselves a Boston Marriage type of deal.”

“First off,” Lydia echoed drily. “ _Rude_. Not to mention completely irrelevant. Second, you’re on.” 

He rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “Methinks you’re gonna regret taking that bet, Lyds.”

She ducked her head to hide her smirk and gave a helpless shrug as she turned her attention to grinding the dried lavender. Making a bet with Betel was never a good idea — not only did he refuse to play fair, he was an infamously sore loser — but she rarely chose not to indulge him. Even despite being perfectly aware when she had made a losing bet. “Anyway, I thought it was very touching that she went to all this trouble and expense to abide by her _friend’s_ wishes.”

The ghost gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. He started to fidget, his mouth settling into a decidedly disgruntled moue. She heard him take in a long, unnecessary breath. “All kidding aside—”

“Surely, you’re joking.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” he continued, over-enunciating. “I’m not so sure about us taking any job involving Jericho or that Talion asshole. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Lydia laughed. “This is you, telling me, to turn down a cool twenty grand?” She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead briefly before he batted it aside in annoyance. “Who are you, and what have you done with my pocket demon?”

An odd expression flickered over Betelgeuse’s face; she got the disconcerting impression that if the poltergeist still had a pulse, he might’ve blushed. “Quit tryin’ to distract me, ‘cause I ain’t fuckin’ around.”

Lydia stilled, meeting his gaze. She gave him a curt nod. “Okay. Start talking.”

The ghost ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, plainly stalling. She was startled by how uncomfortable the otherwise overly-confident egomaniac seemed in his own skin. “Somethin’ about that bird rubbed me the wrong way,” he admitted finally. “Don’t ask what, ‘cause I can’t explain it. I ain’t exactly tellin’ you to walk away from easy money, but it’s not like we need it, either. We do this job, babes, we gotta approach it with an abundance of caution.”

“‘We?’” she said lightly.

“Did I stutter?” He glowered at her, then pointedly looked away. As he did, something odd caught her attention. 

“Alright. Fine,” she said, staring fixedly at the out-of-place object she’d spotted, buried in his hair just behind one of his grimy ears. She cocked her head. “When were you in Winter River?”

“Who said I was?” he retorted, not missing a beat.

Lydia narrowed her eyes and stepped in close, her hand stealing upwards. The poltergeist stiffened but stood his ground, still leaning casually against the worktable with his ankles crossed and his arms folded tightly over his chest. He kept his expression nearly impassive, save for a subtle knitting of his brows, his unnaturally glowing blue eyes locked onto hers. She grasped at a lock of his wild, ratted hair and tugged. 

“Ow,” he grumped.

She brought her hand back down and triumphantly waved a tiny pink satin bow under his nose. “Does that answer your question?”

He shrugged, nonchalant. “Lucky guess, Nancy Drew. Coulda picked that up anywhere.”

“Yeah, sure.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Can’t stay away, huh?”

“Whaaaat?! Quit lookin’ at me like that. Kids only graduate from preschool once, after all. You didn’t expect me to miss seeing them off on their big day, didya?” 

_Well,_ that _kind of stung._ She guiltily slipped the bow into her apron pocket and turned back to her worktable. “It’s nice of you to check in on us, Uncle BJ.”

“Nice’s got nothing to do with it.” She glanced at him across her shoulder, brows raised. He flashed a sardonic grin. “Gotta protect my investment, after all.”

“Because you’re in this for the long haul?”

“You’re goddamn right.”

Lydia snorted and reached once again for her mortar and pestle. “Ulterior motives aside, I appreciate the effort.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it.”

Betelgeuse took to lounging in the air over Lydia’s shoulder, lazily chain smoking as she worked. He bellyached half-heartedly about having been consigned to the fate of a kitchen witch’s familiar when she directed him to open the rest of the office windows, but did as he was told, anyway. Before long he was blowing rings and conjuring a pack of little terrier-shaped smoke creatures to leap through each one, a trick that forever amused Lauren and James, while irritating the ever-loving shit out of their mother. Especially since the time Lydia caught the twins in her parents’ garage with a lighter and a pack of their Uncle BJ’s favorite brand of cigarettes, attempting to make smoke rings of their own. 

She sighed, transferring the prepared lavender from the mortar to a separate mixing bowl, and reached for a few sprigs of rosemary. “Listen, Beej. You know I don’t mind you hanging around while I’m working, but you’re being ridiculously distracting — even for you.”

Betel sulked and griped under his breath. Instead of bringing his supernatural circus act to a halt, he conjured up a smoke lion, which began chasing and mauling the terriers one by one, dissipating them into oblivion. He watched the imaginary carnage with a scowl and narrowed glowing eyes. Once the dogs were gone, he flicked a finger; the lion silently roared and dove directly into Lydia’s face.

She coughed, eyes burning, and waved her hands to clear the air. “What the hell, Betelgeuse?!” 

“Hey! Watch the B-words!”

“You deserve two more,” she snapped. “What’s crawled up your ass today, huh?”

He heaved a phlegmy sigh and rolled over onto his stomach, propping his chin on his folded arms. A line appeared between his brows. “Don'tcha think it’s about time you bring the brats into the fold?”

She blinked at him, then scrubbed tears from her eyes and shot him a glare in earnest. “Are you crazy? They’re _four_.”

“What’s that gotta do with anything? I wasn’t much older’n they are now the first time I had a run-in with the supernatural. And not all ghosts are harmless pushovers like Babs, an’ Four-Eyes, an’ me.”

“You? Harmless?” She laughed shortly. “Now I’ve heard everything.” 

“Babes, as far as you and those hell spawn are concerned, I might just be the most harmless ghost you know.”

“Please stop calling them that. Besides, your situation was different. They have me, for one. Second, they have you… Right?”

“Yeah, well, I can’t be around 24/7/365. I’m a busy guy.” He tugged at his sleeves and adjusted his cufflinks. Lydia recognized the gesture as one of his tells; he was definitely hiding something. “A real mover and shaker, know what I mean?”

She curled her lip. “I sure do.”

“C’mon, babe. It’s not like I’m suggestin’ you drop the _Lemegeton_ into their laps–”

“I certainly hope not.”

“But what I _am_ sayin’ is maybe you oughta arm ‘em with enough knowledge to get ‘em outta trouble. You know... Should trouble — hypothetically, mind you — ever rear its scaly, demonic head.”

“What the hell?” She took a threatening step toward him, the heavy pestle gripped in her hand like a knife. “Do you know something I don’t? _Should_ I be worried?”

He grimaced and held up his hands, palms out. “Now, now, don’t get your panties in a bunch, babes. We’re talkin’ hypotheticals, here. But you of all people gotta admit there ain’t nothing wrong with takin’ an ounce or two of prevention.”

She frowned and returned to pounding rosemary into oblivion. Its pungent, resiny scent did much to calm her nerves — the last of which her poltergeist husband was getting on with his usual devil-may-give-a-flying-fuck aplomb. “If there’s trouble, Delia and dad know to call you.”

“Lydia. Darling.” The poltergeist oozed into her personal space, his grabby, icy hands reaching to gather her in close. “Light of my afterlife.”

“Don’t patronize me, damn it!” She shoved the pestle in his face, her other hand going around the black tourmaline pendant suspended on a silver chain between her breasts. The ghost scrambled just out of reach, eyeballing the pendant warily. “Need I remind you of our deal?”

He chuckled uncomfortably, his grin hardening. “Now, Lyds. Be reasonable,” he gritted out between his teeth.

“I am reasonable, you insufferable ass! You don’t give a proverbial loaded gun to small children.”

“At least tell ‘em my real name.”

Lydia let go of the pendant and considered him at length, at first startled then unsettled by the suggestion. “Yeah, no. I don’t think that’s such a great idea, either.”

“Aw, Lyds, c’ _mon_. I know what you’re thinkin’, and you’re wrong — dead wrong.”

“Betel, you go ballistic whenever _I_ summon you more often than once a week.”

“Pfft, that’s different; you’re my controlling old lady. These are _the kids_ we’re talkin’ about, here. My _legacy_ . My adopted _flesh_ and _blood_. They can call a hundred times a day, it’d be no skin off my nose.” Betelgeuse clambered onto his knees and crawled toward her in mid-air, his hands folded together before him in supplication. His eyelashes grew to unnaturally long proportions as he batted them at her. “C’mon, Lyds, please say yes. Pretty please, with daddy’s sweet sugar on top? It would mean an awful lot, knowing I can always be there for those adorable little tykes. I swear to God slash Satan, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night is gonna keep me away. Cross my heart and hope to die again.” He made the sign of the cross over his chest then raised his right hand and flashed a three-fingered salute. “Scouts honor! I’mma always be there for ya, come hell or high water.”

Lydia concentrated on keeping her expression cool and disinterested. Unaffected by Betelgeuse’s over-the-top display. Too bad the conman always could play her like a fiddle. There was definitely something he wasn’t telling her, but getting straight talk out of any ghost — let alone the Ghost With The Most — was next to impossible if said ghost wasn’t so inclined. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. And damn all the consequences, she wanted to put him back for good. 

_Oh, Will. Where the hell are you?_

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced a shrug. “Fine. _But we tell them together_ ,” she added firmly as he threw his arms around her shoulders and crowed in victory. Multi-colored confetti burst over their heads and rained down, covering everything in the room.

“‘Course, babes. Together,” he said, chortling smugly as she disentangled herself from his grasp. “You’re the boss.” 

“Don’t you forget it,” she muttered, shaking confetti from her hair. “Speaking of, I need to actually get some work accomplished today, so if you don’t mind…”

“Gotcha, babes.” Betelgeuse banished the bits of colorful paper with a careless sweep of his hand. “Gonna cyberstalk the creepy old lesbos?”

“I suppose I should, since they’re giving you bad vibes.” She sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face. Her eyes longingly drifted to the sun-soaked view outside her office windows. “I’m definitely not looking forward to sitting in front of a computer screen for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Why don’tcha get outta here for a while then, huh? You’re always complainin’ about how the library has better internet than us.”

“I guess that’s an idea.” Lydia picked at a bit of dry skin on her lower lip, watching Betel light a cigarette out of the corner of her eye. “Come with?”

“That an order, _boss_ , or a request?”

“Whichever floats your boat.”

The poltergeist loomed over her, expression predatory, one hand clutching his smoke and the other in his pocket. “Y’know me, babes, I’m always game. But I’m sure you could still think of a way to sweeten the deal.”

The feeling of a cold, cold fingertip trailed feather-light over her skin under her clothes, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. She shivered and took an involuntary step back. Her hip hit the edge of the worktable, rattling the glassware. “You’re unbelievable.”

“ _Oh_ , baby,” he murmured. His ice-rimed breath danced over her parted lips. “You really have no idea.”

Lydia cleared her throat. “Focus.”

At that, Betelgeuse leaned back on his heels and went about straightening his tie. “Right, right. Business first.”

“Right,” she agreed. “ _You’re_ the professional. I need your expert insight.”

“Flatterer.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and considered her a moment. “Maybe you can skip the screen time for today, Lyds. Might I suggest some _undercover_ action, instead?”

She made a face. Somehow that didn’t sound any more appealing. “Surveillance, you mean?” 

“Told you this job got my Spidey senses a-tingling. We got a few days to get our shit together and form a solid plan of attack. So, how’s about you tail the ol’ bat, while I do a little B an’ E?”

“Pocketing anything valuable and not nailed down along the way, I assume?”

He blew out an impossibly long plume of smoke and flicked his cigarette butt off into the aether. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely.” 

“Sounds like fun... For you.”

“C’mon, c’mon, c’moooon.” The ghost stomped both feet and flailed his arms like James would when throwing one of his tantrums. “Y’know you wanna play dress-up with daddy.”

Lydia wandered over to the heavily-laden coat tree next to her office door and hefted up a generously-spiked black leather jacket in one hand. It had been a while; a fine film of dust covered the hardware and buttery soft leather. 

“Punk,” she mused, half to herself. “Or co-ed?” She gasped as Betelgeuse appeared right in front of her, wearing a wild grin that revealed far more teeth than any one mouth had business possessing. 

“Whichever,” he growled, gently tapping the tip of her nose once with a long, grubby finger. “Floats your boat.”

She blinked, lifted her chin, and smiled back. “Punk it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know... Betelgeuse is a a huge, politically incorrect asshole.
> 
> The scene with Lydia plucking one of her daughter’s barrettes from Beej’s hair (and pretty much any future scene with the kids) was inspired by this series of fanart in particular: https://clairjohnson.tumblr.com/post/626902335762972672/im-very-into-the-idea-that-movie-beetlejuice-is#notes
> 
>  **Random Fun Facts:**  
>  According to the United States Social Security Administration, James and Lauren are the “lucky number thirteenth” most popular boy and girl baby names, respectively, of the 1990’s. Seemed entirely apt. https://www.ssa.gov/oact/babynames/decades/names1990s.html
> 
>  **Quote Attribution:**  
>  The quote “Well, he can fuck _that_ sky high”. is shamelessly stolen from the wondiferous Matt Berry’s character on _Toast of London._
> 
> The quote “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark” is from Shakespeare’s _Hamlet._
> 
> The quote “Bye, Felicia” is from the movie _Friday._
> 
> The quote “And don’t call me Shirley” is lifted from _Airplane,_ natch.
> 
> “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night” is from the United States Postal Service Workers’ unofficial creed.
> 
> “You’re goddamn right” is a nod to _Breaking Bad._
> 
> There was going to be a little _Hamilton_ reference, but I excised it at the last minute because this chapter was getting ridiculous. In the letter Mrs. Winterbourne presents to Our Heroes, the letter opens with “My dearest, Felicia...” With a comma after dearest! <3
> 
> But I did manage to slip in a little “God slash Satan” from the _Beetlejuice_ musical. :D
> 
> The line “Lydia. Darling. Light of my afterlife.” was unconsciously influenced by _The Shining._ A special thanks to @Adelaida27 for bringing it to my attention!!


	3. If You Have Ghosts, You Have Everything

Lydia realized she was pacing again — seriously, how ridiculous was she being, Beetlebreath would laugh his ass off if he could see her right now — and forced herself to sit back down at the table she’d commandeered at a quiet sidewalk café. 

After she and her partner had located and scoped out Felicia Winterbourne’s home, a stately, looming brownstone on a quiet street corner in Brooklyn Heights near the East River, the medium had reluctantly agreed they split up while the poltergeist performed a little preliminary recognizance. That had been nearly two hours ago, however, and the sunlight slanting through trees and buildings alike was rapidly losing its brilliancy.

_ What a waste of a perfectly good afternoon. I could’ve been to the library and back by now. Where the fuck  _ is  _ he? _

She sighed and checked her pocket watch for what must’ve been the twentieth time. It was an antique, the gold exterior beautifully engraved with floral motifs twisted around the sweeping lines of a letter L. She wasn’t sure who or what the L had originally stood for; the timepiece had been a surprise gift from Betel several years back. 

“Happy anniversary, dumplin',” he’d said with a smug, self-satisfied grin the day he’d pulled it from one of his infinitely deep pockets and carelessly tossed it at her. 

It hadn’t been remotely close to their anniversary, which she’d definitely found suspicious at the time. He likely pilfered the watch from some poor, long-dead New York City aristocrat’s grave. But he insisted she carry it everywhere, and it actually worked — unlike the numerous wristwatches he always wore — which was all that concerned her at this point. 

She shook off the random intrusive thought, returned the watch to her front pocket, and absently took a sip from her coffee cup. She immediately regretted it, making a face when the cold, thick, gritty dregs hit her tongue. Every last shred of her remaining patience disintegrated. She shrugged out of her jacket with an angry roll of her shoulders, and welcomed the breeze that cooled the sweat running between her shoulder blades and at the nape of her neck, under the wig. 

Before leaving the office, Lydia had traded the comfort of her usual flowing tunic, skirt, and light work apron for ripped black skinny jeans, an Agnostic Front tee under a black leather jacket, and a well-beloved pair of don’t-fuck-with-me steel toe boots. Cheap sunglasses, the expensive platinum blonde wig styled in an asymmetrical bob, a pack of Camels, and a quick obfuscation glamour, courtesy of Betel, topped off what had become one of her signature disguises. 

Her extremely altered appearance was admittedly overkill in this case — Brooklyn Heights was far out of her usual way, and Mrs. Winterbourne probably wouldn’t have recognized Lydia even if she ran smack into her on the street. In any case, Betel’s glamour guaranteed that no one would pay her much mind unless she bothered addressing them directly. That kind of insurance had come in handy over the years.

The beeper clipped to Lydia’s waistband trilled and vibrated, startling her. She reached to pop it out of its case. The alphanumeric display flashed a message: HOME SOON? DINNER SAT.

Lydia was awash in guilt before bothering to scroll down to check the return number: Delia.  _ Sorry, mother.  _ She returned the beeper to its clip at her waist.  _ I’ll have to get back with you later. _

As much as she ached to see her children, let alone her dad, she knew if she accepted Delia’s dinner invitation that Betelgeuse would insist upon the discussion he wanted them to have with Lauren and James. The kids knew and referred to him as Uncle BJ, and had since they were old enough to talk. In fact, “BJ” had been the first word Lauren had uttered, while James’ had been “Mama.” Despite Betel’s obvious adoration for the kids, and as securely-leashed as he was to his wife, Lydia still wasn’t sold on the idea of telling her children the truth about their so-called uncle. In fact, the poltergeist’s recent jumpiness and sudden preoccupation with the twins’ safety struck her as downright unsettling, and his refusal to explain the source of his observable worry gave her the terrifying impression he was hiding something. Something scary. Something big.

Maybe even something unforgivable.

Lydia shivered and rubbed at the gooseflesh that rose over her arms. She was going to have to attempt having a serious chat with him… Tonight, preferably. Or whenever he bothered actually showing his decomposing ass.

_ Bet you anything he’s peeping on some poor, unsuspecting, big-breasted apartment-dweller while she’s taking a shower— _

“Babes.”

Lydia nearly jumped out of her own skin at the sound of Betelgeuse’s gravelly voice, and the prickling of his stubble against the shell of her right ear. She was half-surprised by his proximity, and half-mortified by the sickening sense of discontent that had crawled into her belly as she lingered on the idea of her poltergeist ogling another woman. As if that mattered. Which it definitely didn’t, because he wasn’t actually  _ her  _ poltergeist at all, it’s not like she had had much choice in the matter.  _ Ugh. _ What the hell was her problem, anyway? He could ogle whomever he damn well pleased, so long as it had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

“Where the hell have you been?” she snapped in a furious undertone before turning to glare over her shoulder. She paused and blinked up at him, lips parting. The expression he wore had just about knocked the breath out of her. “Tell me.”

The poltergeist made a careless gesture, casting a wall of soundproofed air around their immediate vicinity, then moved to the chair across from hers and threw himself into it. He rubbed his face with both hands and pushed them through his hair, tugging at the coarse locks and growling in frustration. “I knew this was gonna be a goddamn shit show. Anything involving those Jericho motherfuckers always is.”

“What did you see?”

“That’s the problem, babes,” he said darkly, glowing blue eyes flickering up to meet hers. “That place is locked up tighter than a Catholic schoolgirl’s knees.”

She sat back, releasing a frustrated breath, and threw up her hands. “What the hell does that mean? Lovely metaphor, by the way.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “ _ I _ thought so.”

“Explain. Use your words,” she demanded. “Now.”

“What I mean is we’re dealin’ with high rollers. The big guns. Someone who  _ really  _ knows their shit wants to keep other people who really know their shit from crossing that threshold. No way I’m gettin’ in.”

“But— How is that even possible? You’re… You’re  _ you _ . And you have a license!”

“Look, doll face, y’know I don’t ever wanna admit when I’m out of my depth — but I’m out of my depth here. I crawled over every fuckin’ inch lookin’ for a opportunity to slither my way in. The place is sealed. Lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree when I come within a foot of it. I didn’t stand a chance.” He frowned as if something just occurred to him, then locked eyes with her, his expression hard. “Cancel. Fork over the cash, tell the old bag to fuck off.”

Lydia gaped at him. “Give me one good reason.”

“Told you, I can’t get near the place. And I sure as hell ain’t lettin’ you out of my sight, not without knowing what you’re walking into first.”

“Mrs. Winterbourne is a personal friend of Daniel Talion. You do remember the Foundation pays our bills, right? They keep my lights on, and you in Johnny Walker.”

“You really think I give a single flying fuck about the Foundation?” He leaned in, jabbing at the tabletop with a dirty, blunt fingertip. “Because I sure as hell don’t, and neither should you. What’s the goddamn point? What the hell are ya tryn’ to prove, and who ya tryin’ to prove it to?”

Lydia mirrored his movements, thrusting her face into his. “Will,” she reminded quietly. 

Betelgeuse’s features twisted into something hateful. “You’re killin’ me, babes. You know that, right? It’s been five fuckin’ years—”

“You promised.” She dropped her head in weary defeat, resting her forehead against the back of her hands. After a moment she looked up again, pleading with him. “You haven’t heard anything at all from the Bureau?”

The harsh lines around the poltergeist’s glaring eyes softened. “No.”

“Nothing at all?”

He cleared his throat. “Y’know I can’t lie to you, Lyds.”

That, Lydia was forced to acknowledge, was technically true. It was part of their contract, a clause he’d thrown in as a goodwill gesture. But said clause was also frustratingly specific. She could compel him to answer direct questions truthfully, but that didn’t mean he was under any obligation to disclose detailed information. Most of the time he opted to answer in monosyllables unless offered an incentive to do otherwise. She couldn’t determine if he did so out of pride, or simple pigheadedness. 

She reached over the table and took his hand, her fingers going around his. “No matter what you find out... Even if it's the worst case scenario. Don’t keep it from me, okay?”

“Like you said, I promised, didn’t I?” He squeezed her hand briefly before freeing himself from her grasp and casting his gaze aside to focus on the sidewalk at their feet. “Besides, the sooner I fulfill my end of the deal, the sooner we’re free. Out of each other’s lives. For good.”

It was like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Lydia blinked at him numbly. There was a distant ringing in her ears. “You don’t mean that,” she heard herself say.

Betel’s smoldering eyes met hers once again. “Don’t I?”

She shook herself and frowned at him. Bitterness rushed in, replacing the strange emotional void his words had plunged her into. “Listen, B, we really don’t have time for this. Let’s get moving. I want to see those wards for myself.”

“Nein. Nyet. _Nope.”_ He shook his head vigorously. “Ain’t no fuckin’ way.”

Lydia stood and slipped on her jacket. “You seem to be operating under the assumption that you actually have a say in this.” She picked up her empty coffee cup to toss it in a nearby trash bin, then turned to smile at him over her shoulder. “Come on, Betelgeuse. Let’s  _ go _ .” 

He stared at her, head cocked, hands clenched into fists. After a moment he curled his lip and casually stood. “Sure thing, boss.”

* * * *

Betelgeuse followed, floating in sullen silence a few paces behind Lydia as they backtracked toward the Winterbourne home. She felt his grim regard, felt how his eyes bored icy holes into the back of her head, and pretended it didn’t bother her.

_ This is fine, Deetz. Let him be angry. It’s only because you have an edge, an advantage. He knows it, and he  _ hates  _ it, _ she told herself firmly. If she were honest with herself, she would have recognized her reasoning as an attempt to brush off the residual hurt and grief that lingered after their most recent spat. When he admitted his desire to get away from her.  _ Which is perfectly natural _ , she nodded to herself.

After all, they might be married in the eyes of the universe and Netherworldian Authority, but their union had always been a sham. A marriage of inconvenience, he’d called it. A green card thing. He was a conman concerned with his best interests, and his best interests alone. He’d tricked her when she had been a terrified child at her lowest point. Since then he’d lulled her into a false sense of camaraderie, wormed his way into her family’s good graces, even made her kids adore him. The entire Deetz-Maitland clan had a bit of Stockholm Syndrome, is all. Outside of their contractual obligations, Lydia and Betelgeuse meant nothing to each other. 

_ Right? _

As they approached the last cross street, a frigid hand closed like a vise around Lydia’s wrist, bringing her to an abrupt halt. She’d been so caught up in her own head, wallowing and heartsick, the unexpected touch prompted her to yelp in surprise. Betel snickered at her reaction.

“What is it?” she asked testily, and made a futile attempt to twist out of his iron grip. 

He tugged her around to face him. “Goddamn, doll. You’re wound tight.”

“I wonder why,” she muttered. She managed to pry his fingers from her arm. “It’s been a long day. Let’s just get this over with so we can go home.”

“Uh huh.” He raised a skeptical brow. “And do what, exactly?”

“Well, for starters, I plan on taking a long, hot bath.”

“Okay, yeah. You got me, there. Good starting point. Wine?”

“That, too. Something easy for dinner. Maybe a bit of reading before bed.”

He pursed his lips. “Business, or pleasure?”

“It’s been a minute since I read for pleasure,” she admitted ruefully, warming up to him again in spite of herself.

“And that,” he began, gently flicking the tip of her nose. “Is the problem. When was the last time you did anything just for the fun of it, huh?” Lydia opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, finding herself unable to answer the question. “Yeah. Exactly what I thought.”

“I’ve been busy,” she objected weakly.

The poltergeist settled his hands on her shoulders and gathered her in. “How ‘bout you let me take you out, babes. Get your mind off shit. Paint the town. Or, better yet, let’s  _ skip  _ town. We’ll swing up, grab the kids. Have us a little adventure, like a real honest-to-gods red-blooded American family.” He gave her a crooked smile. “So? Whaddaya say?”

Lydia searched his face, his eyes. Saw his earnestness. Felt the gentleness of his touch. Recognized a con when she saw one. “Delia cornered you this morning, didn’t she?”

Betel’s smile transformed into a scowl at comical speed. “Fuck.”

“Nice try,” she said, and then dove at him.

Betel grunted upon impact as her arms squeezed around his pudgy midsection. She tucked her head against his chest beneath his chin and breathed in deep. His scent filled her nose: cloying tobacco and acrid cigarette smoke, strong diner coffee, wet clay and rich garden soil, and something faint and sweet. Something that reminded her of an old, wilting flower arrangement, or maybe grass clippings. After a moment’s hesitation he returned her embrace, his arms coming hard around her. They stood together on the sidewalk in the waning afternoon sun, woman and ghost, completely apart from and unnoticed by pedestrians and passing cars.

“Hey, Lyds?” his voice rumbled in her ear.

She sniffled. “Hey, B?”

“I didn’t mean what I said before. Y’know that, dontcha?”

“I know.” She rubbed her wet face against his shirt, knowing he wouldn’t mind. “I’m sorry for throwing our deal in your face. It’s unfair.”

“Bygones, babes,” he said with a chuckle. “Water under the bridge. Don’t even mention it.”

Lydia tilted her face up to look him in the eye. She smiled fondly. “Besties?”

He grinned back. “Fuck, yeah, we are!" He gave her one last squeeze, then released her and took a step back. “Right. Now that we got that bullshit out of the way, let’s get down to business.” 

Betel turned on his heel, crossing the street and heading for a locked wrought iron gate that blocked public access to an alley. The narrow space ran between a nineteenth century brick townhome and a post-war apartment complex that had been covered over in stucco at some point. The lock popped loudly under his fingers. He swung open the gate, turned to her, and sketched a bow.

“After you, m’lady.”

Lydia put her hands on her hips. “Winterbourne’s place is thataway,” she said, indicating farther up the block with her chin.

“Alternate route. Less visibility thisaway,” he clarified when she rolled her eyes at him.

He led her down the alley past cozy-looking private courtyards, and skirting along fenced-in backyards through an overgrown right-of-way. At one point she needed help climbing over a rusting washer-dryer set that someone had dumped, but otherwise the space was a sweet little bit of wilderness populated with huge oaks and maples, tucked between rows of houses. At last they reached the other end of the block, and the solid 10-foot brick wall enclosing Felicia Winterbourne’s property. There were no windows on this side of the house, which Lydia assumed is where the “less visibility” came in.

“This way,” Betel said, pulling her down another alley between the brownstone and the home next door, which appeared to have been converted into condos. 

They came to a halt before a solid wooden door that appeared to open into the back yard, flanked on either side by rolling recycling bins. The ghost opened the lid on one bin, curiously stuck his head inside, then made a face and let it fall shut again. The reek of sour beer hit Lydia square in the face. Her eyes immediately began to water.

“Was that necessary?” she groused.

The poltergeist grinned and shrugged. He then struck a pose, throwing his arms wide and wriggling his fingertips at the wooden door. “Here we are, babes! Take a gander, check it out.”

She gave him one last withering look, turned toward the door, and closed her eyes. A breath and a whispered incantation later she opened her eyes and Looked. Activating her Sight was nearly second nature after so many years of practice. The garish neon green glow of Betelgeuse’s aura painted the wood, brick, concrete, and limestone before her. The deeper blue of her own aura was lost in the poltergeist’s vibrant radiance, only faintly reflected back at her from the metal door hinges. She spied nothing out of the ordinary. No wards shone back at her, no witchmarks, no spells of protection.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” she wondered aloud, brow knitting in puzzlement.

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t see it. It’s plain as fuckin’ day,” Betel said, then stopped himself. He slapped a palm over his forehead. “Shit. Okay, yeah. Duh. Of course you can’t see it, you’re not the intended target. It’s not meant for you to see.”

Lydia made the mistake of looking at him without turning off her Sight, and was nearly blinded. She cursed and ducked her head, burying her face in her elbow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Here, lemme show ya.”

She realized too late what he meant by that. Her hands shot up, palms out. A futile attempt at fending him off. “No! I’ll take your word for it, that isn’t necces—” 

Lydia gasped as Betelgeuse closed the distance between them, stepping close, then stepping  _ in _ . The feeling was akin to being plunged deep into unfathomable arctic waters, her rushing hot blood at once gone to slush, bone marrow crackling with ice. The late spring breeze, previously mild and pleasant, now stroked her cheeks and ruffled her hair with fingers made of hellfire. Her senses grew keener, vision focused and sharpened to a fine point. 

The poltergeist plucked with effortless finesse along her nerves, playing her like a puppet on strings, compelling her to turn, coaxing her head to tilt back and her eyes to focus where he willed. He lifted her hand, stroking it along the door’s weathered limestone casing. Sigils flared to life under her fingertips and spread exponentially, dimly glowing red then brightening to a molten gold. 

A wave of fascination nearly overrode the cold horror of possession.  _ Oh, Jesus Christ _ , she murmured silently. For once Betelgeuse hadn’t exaggerated; the entire surface of the brownstone, walls, windows, and roof tiles, were covered in ancient glowing symbols and text. The place had been sealed, protected by the unholiest of magicks. It was a wonder he could get within ten blocks of the place.

“Told you that Felicia broad was hidin’ something.” The poltergeist’s voice rumbled through her middle like warning tremors down a major fault line. An unbidden tendril of warmth flared behind her breastbone, then dropped like a stone to pool low in her belly. If she’d had full control of her body, she would have flushed bright red from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. 

“Check this out.” A shudder wracked through her as he forced her gaze higher to linger on a specific set of symbols etched over the lintel. The carved lines, sunk deeply into the stone, were unsettlingly familiar: an invocation. He chuckled, his amusement winding round her, warming her up like a bear hug. ”Makes me wonder… What  _ is  _ ol’ Astaroth up to these days?”

Lydia managed to wrest back enough control to suck in a breath of sun-scorched oxygen. “Get. Out.” she hissed between chattering teeth.

“Ope. Sorry ‘bout that, babe, wasn’t thinkin’.” Betel withdrew to stand beside her, seemingly oblivious to her fury and unaffected by the rather complicated feat of blended possession he’d just performed. He brushed imaginary Saturn dust off his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs and collar, straightened his tie. He glanced at her face, then did a double-take and paused, cocking his head. “Whaaaat?”

“You  _ utter bastard _ ,” she seethed.

“C’mon, Lyds. I only popped in for a sec. Hell, you should be used to it by now.”

She sputtered. “That wasn’t ‘popping in,’ that was—” She broke off, the words lodging in her throat. She wrapped her arms around her quaking middle and took in another breath to steady herself. “Consent, asshole; there’s a reason you  _ ask first _ .”

“It wasn’t that bad, don’t be such a puss,” he waved her off. “Besides, you can trust me.”

“Oh, can I?”

“Hey, freaks!” A shrill feminine voice interrupted. “This is private property. Take your creepy little lovers’ spat somewhere else, like pronto, or I’m calling the cops.”

Betel and Lydia stared at each other with wide eyes before turning as one toward the source of the voice. A ridiculously gorgeous, overly-tanned blonde woman glared down at them from the fire escape of the condo building next door. She was perched on the window sill of her apartment in a peach silk bathrobe and bare feet, an obnoxiously large wine glass in one hand, and a cut crystal ashtray balanced on her shapely sun-kissed knee. 

Betel raised his brows — whether in astonishment or appreciation of the other woman’s scantily-clad curves, Lydia couldn’t be sure. “You.” He pointed at the woman, then at himself. “Can see me?”

“Like, what the fuck kind of a question is that?,” the woman snapped. “Are you tweakers? Or off-Broadway losers, is that your deal? That would explain the cheap costumes and shitty makeup. Unless you’re trying to be this gross on purpose. Don’t you know Halloween is, like, six months away?”

“You actually cast that glamour when I asked you to, right? What happened to the Cone of Silence?” Lydia hissed at Betel out of the corner of her mouth.

“Hey! I resent the insinuation’. My juice is working just fine, thanks.”

“Then how do you explain her?”

He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “Dunno. Could be she’s touched and just ain’t realized it yet.” Then he flashed his partner a predatory grin, waggling his eyebrows and bouncing gleefully on his toes. “Didya hear that, Lyds? She can see me!”

“No.” Lydia frowned back. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, c’mon. You never let me cut loose anymore. I’ve been good, ain’t I? Done each and every thing little you asked of me lately? Dontcha think I deserve to blow off a little steam?”

“Don’t even think about it,” she murmured, shaking her head. She gave the other woman an apologetic smile and called, “Sorry about that!”

The blonde rolled her eyes and took a delicate sip of the sparkling pink liquid in her wine glass. “Yeah, whatever.”

Lydia turned to Betelgeuse, questions buzzing on her tongue, and found his attention hungrily focused on the blonde’s legs. She sighed, reached to twist her fist in the grubby fabric of his jacket, and gave it a vicious tug. He looked down at her, blue eyes wide at first then narrowing. “What’d I do now?”

Lydia snorted. “There’s nearly 20 million people in this city, B. How many of them would you say are like us?”

He furrowed his brow. “Legitimately, you mean?” 

“Legitimately.”

“Jeez, babes, I dunno. A thousand? Prolly less.”

“So. A fraction of a fraction of a percent.”

“Yeah.  _ So?  _ What’s your point?”

Lydia yanked at his jacket again, forcing him to stoop over until they were nearly nose to nose. “What are the odds that we’d run into a bonafide medium, living here in Brooklyn Heights, right next door to this particular house?”

He blinked at her, glowing eyes glittering with comprehension. “Fuckin’ slim.”

Lydia turned away, pulling Betel along as she moved to stand just below the woman’s fire escape. “Excuse me, miss?”

The blonde stubbed out her cigarette, shifted her ashtray to the sill, then got up to stand at the fire escape’s rail. She leaned her elbows against the chipped painted metal, her breasts pressing (rather fetchingly, Lydia had to admit) against her forearms. “You’re  _ still  _ here?”

“Sorry to keep bothering you,” Lydia said sweetly. “We’re looking at an apartment in your building, so we’ve been checking things out, getting familiar with the area. Do you know many of your neighbors?”

The other woman sneered. “Are you, like,  _ new  _ here?”

Lydia had the sudden uncharacteristic urge to be insulting. She forced a smile instead. “From upstate, actually. But what I meant is how quiet is the neighborhood? Anything worth mentioning? Anything we should be worried about?”

The blonde shrugged. “I mean... it’s quiet enough, I guess.”

“Is there a lot of foot traffic at night? Parties, that kind of thing?”

The blonde tipped her wine glass at Mrs. Winterbourne’s brownstone. “They get loud sometimes.” 

“Loud?” Lydia prompted. 

“Yeah. Like, weird underground freaky sex club loud, with lights and music and yelling and moaning. But I’ve only ever seen two old ladies go in or out of the place.” She shrugged, expression bored. “Guess you never can tell.”

“You can say that again,” said Betel. He gave Lydia a meaningful look. “I’m not so sure this is the right place for us, doll. You know how the kids can get when they don’t get a good night’s sleep. Maybe we should  _ keep on truckin’.” _

The blonde woman pursed her glossy lips and narrowed her eyes, as if scrutinizing their appearance closely for the first time. “What is your _real_ deal?”

Lydia began edging toward the end of the alley, pulling an unresisting Betelgeuse along with her. “Are you talking about us?” She gave the blonde a vacant, innocent smile. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My daddy owns this building,” the other woman replied, straightening. Her big blue eyes had gone hard. “I think he would’ve, like, told me if one of the units had been vacated.”

Betel abruptly dug in his heels, causing Lydia to stumble. He reached to steady her. “Oh, honey bun,” he said loudly, his tone disappointed. Reproachful. “Are you blackout drunk  _ again?” _

Lydia blinked up at the ghost in astonishment as he ducked his head to sniff at her mouth. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” 

“Aw, geez, babes, you’re completely plastered. I bet this ain’t even the right block.” He looked up at the blonde and gave her a sheepish smile and a jaunty wave. “Uh, sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t mean to trespass. We’ll just be goin’ now, ‘kay? Bye!”

The blonde looked unimpressed with Betel’s miserable attempt at subterfuge. She gave them the finger. “Fuck off. Like, seriously.”

Betelgeuse and Lydia picked up speed as they reached the gate at the end of the alley, bursting all at once onto the sidewalk. The medium power walked away from the Winterbourne home, then broke into an outright run as soon as she reached the end of the block, refusing to stop until she reached a small public park half a dozen long city blocks away. She collapsed onto a bench, clutching the vicious stitch in her side as she gasped desperately for breath.

The poltergeist sat down beside her. Cool as a cucumber. Completely unaffected. “Well  _ that  _ was a fuckin’ disaster.”

“You  _ asshole _ ,” she wheezed. 

“Hey! What’d I do?”

“‘Oh, honey bun, I can’t believe you’re blackout drunk again.’”

Betel threw his head back and let out a joyous and entirely evil cackle. After a moment, Lydia joined him. They huddled together on the bench, each leaning into the other, lost in utter hysterics. Laughing until both were reduced to tears. Laughing so hard that every part of Lydia’s body, especially her face,  _ hurt _ .

“Shit,” she said with a sigh, brushing tears of mirth from her face. “That actually  _ was  _ a fucking disaster.”

“Y’know what the worst part was? How you let that bleach blonde bitch get away with talkin’ to us like that. Still can’t believe I married such a fuckin’ goody two-shoes buzzkill,” the poltergeist grumbled. He juiced up a lit cigarette and shoved it between his pouting lips. 

“You literally asked for it,” Lydia said without heat. She rose from the bench and yawned, arms stretched over her head. “What time is it, anyway?”

He pushed up a striped sleeve to consult his watches. “Quarter to six.”

“Shit,” she repeated, making a face. “Let’s head home. I told Lauren I’d call back before bedtime. I also need that wine you mentioned.”

Lydia offered Betelgeuse a hand up, which he accepted without comment, and tugged him to his feet. Neither seemed inclined to let the other go after the fact. They strolled toward the train station hand in hand with the sun setting at their backs, good-naturedly bickering over which takeout place from which to make an order, and which bottle of wine they should open.


End file.
